


it's no stranger to you and me

by runandgo



Series: the real thing [1]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: (it's just weed), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Drug Use, Graduate School, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, i didn't mean for this to be sad wtf happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runandgo/pseuds/runandgo
Summary: "What did it feel like, compared with kissing girls?"Sam pauses, then says quietly, "Fireworks."





	

**Author's Note:**

> the west wing is currently soothing my sherlock-induced wounds, and after watching the beginning of season 2 i wanted to write young josh/sam so bad.
> 
> i've only watched up to the season 2 thanksgiving episode so please don't hold it against me if this isn't canon-compliant! i guess you can consider it an au where josh and sam went to law school together and met there instead of... wherever they do meet lol. i don't know how sam is about drug use so sorry if this is wildly ooc but when josh mentioned a potato bong i had an "aha!" moment with this fic which i had already begun. this is also probably wildly inaccurate because i don't know how congress internships work, but if you're reading this i'm guessing it's not because you want to read about the inner workings of our government lol. i've also never smoked A Weed, so if this is off then i'm sorry! title is from "in the air tonight" aka my number one song catalyst for romantic action.
> 
> comments and kudos make my day, so if you like it, please let me know! ❤

It's mid-May in DC, and the white shirts of all of the politicians are sticking to their backs as they walk along the wide, sandy gravel paths of the Mall. Their shoes kick up puffs of dust that seem to hang in the moisture-heavy air before dissipating slowly.

Josh is sitting on a bench across from the carousel, eating the remnants of a cherry sno-cone with the end of the straw. The National Archives building looms past the Sculpture Garden, the Capitol gleams a bright white, and the Washington Monument towers into the sky like the arm of man reaching out to God. It really is a ridiculously beautiful view. Sam can only hope that he gets to enjoy it for the next few months. 

He shifts the styrofoam box containing his dinner - a gyro and fries - to his other hand and walks towards where his friend is sitting. When Josh sees Sam, he stands, a jubilant grin appearing on his face. "Well? Can we go?" 

"Not yet, I have to eat my dinner." Sam sits his briefcase down next the bench and hurries to take his jacket off. It's broiling, 90 degrees even at 6 PM, and the humidity of the Potomac is cruel and unforgiving. Once he's free, he rolls up his sleeves and digs in. 

"It's so crazy to think that we might live here soon. You know?" Josh tilts his paper cone back; the syrup at the bottom comes rushing out and trickles down the side of his mouth and onto his shirt. "Ah, shit." Halfheartedly, he licks a napkin and dabs at his collar where the Red 40 is surely setting in. 

Despite this picture of buffoonery, Sam can't help but smile. "Yeah. I know." 

"Well, I mean. Assuming we get the internships. Which I think we will, don't you?" Josh looks over at Sam, smiles with his red-stained teeth. "We're leagues ahead of the other guys. Fuckin' outta sight. Practically in space." 

"I wouldn't go that far. There's a kid from Harvard Law here, she's pretty damn good." Sam opens his lunch, considers using his fork and knife, and decides to just go for it, picking up the gyro with both hands. Tzatziki sauce drips out of the end and lands on his freshly-laundered pants. _Damn._

"Yeah? What's her name?" Josh gives Sam a smirk. "She hot?" 

"Her name is Ainsley Hayes. And I guess?" Sam mumbles, slightly incoherent with his mouth full of food. 

"What makes her hot?" 

"Josh, you're a graduate student, not a sophomore in high school." 

"I just wanna know! Hey, sue a guy for wanting to know a hot, smart girl." 

"Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up." Sam licks hot sauce off his fingers. "She's a Republican," he adds, and watches with a vindictive sort of pleasure as Josh's face changes to utter horror. 

"Never... never do that to me again," he splutters. " _Sam._ I thought we were friends." 

"We are." 

" _God,_ though, are we really?" Josh turns to face Sam, eyes serious. "Friends don't let friends even for a _second_ consider dating a Republican." 

"I just wanted to see your face," Sam grins. 

"You're an asshole." Josh steals a fry and pops it in his mouth, and Sam has to turn his head so Josh can't see the look on his face. It feels obvious whenever he does it, but he can't decide what's worse - continuing or letting Josh see what he's hiding, the affection that must shine out of his face. 

Josh claps him on the back, and Sam starts out of his reverie and drops the fry he was holding. "Hurry up, man. We'll find out if we got them as soon as we get back to the hotel." 

"Yeah." He shoves the rest of the gyro into his mouth, wipes his greasy fingers on a napkin, and puts the box into his pocket. They'll eat the fries later tonight, because they'll undoubtedly be up until ungodly hours, either celebrating or... not. 

They traipse back up the mall towards the Metro and slide their cards, entering the Archives station and shouldering into the crowd of people in their suits and ties. It's sweaty and it's cramped, and the heat makes everyone more cranky than usual. Josh finds a seat, squeezed in between two businessmen who clearly left a space for a reason. He's oblivious as usual. Sam (who is standing, thank you very much) braces himself automatically for the lurch as the train wrenches itself into motion - he's already getting used to the movement of the city. 

It's another few stops, and the train's cleared off somewhat, before Josh looks up at Sam. "Hey, Speed Racer, slow down. You're not going anywhere." 

"Huh?" Sam starts and tries to focus on what Josh is saying instead of staring at his lips. _God._ This is getting to be a problem. 

"You're jiggling your leg, you're shaking the whole train. Do you have to go to the bathroom? Because I hate to say this, but you shoulda gone before we left." The side of Josh's mouth quirks up, and Sam's fairly sure his heart literally skips a beat. _Stop it._

"No, no. I'm just nervous," he mutters, and forces his leg still. 

"Sam, you have no reason to be nervous. If either of us is going to get it - assuming we don't both, hot Republican be damned - it's gonna be you." 

"That's kind of you," Sam says quietly. 

"Come _on,_ Sam. What were you, valedictorian at Princeton?" 

"Salutatorian, actually -" 

"Oh, yeah, sorry, you came second place to a Mensa member," Josh scoffs. " _Magna cum laude._ Salutatorian. The best speechwriter I've ever read - don't protest, Sam, you are - just come on, man, relax a little." 

Sam stares at the floor and tries very hard to keep his face from coloring. "Thanks, Josh, that means a lot." 

"Meant every damn word." Josh sprawls back on his seat and gives Sam a sincere smile, a far cry from the one he keeps on hand to impress the Capital runners and the girls in their program. 

They ride the Metro all the way to Virginia. The last stop is their shitty one-story motel, and when they arrive there are two letters sitting on the doorstep. Josh picks them up while Sam unlocks the door with shaky hands. The key rattles loudly when he hangs it on the hook. 

Josh hands Sam the letter marked "Samuel Seaborn" and steps away. "Count of three, okay?" 

"One... two... three." They tear open the envelopes like men possessed, eyes ravaging the paper until Sam's land on _Congratulations_ and he's shouting, shouting like he hasn't done since he saw his Princeton acceptance waiting on his doorstep in his senior year. Josh is hugging him and whooping at the top of his lungs, waving his own letter around like a war banner. Sam collapses back on the creaky mattress and feels himself smile, so hard his cheeks hurt. 

The bed whines in protest as Josh throws himself on top of Sam. "Samuel Seaborn and Joshua Lyman! Who da men?" 

"We da men," Sam gasps, straining to not taste the cheap cotton sheets his face is pressed into. 

"Damn fucking straight." Josh rolls off the bed and strides over to his bag as Sam attempts to regain his breath. He rummages through all the pockets before straightening up, triumphant, with a small plastic baggie pinched between his fingers. "This calls for a celebration." 

"Oh, God." Sam hangs his head. "Please tell me you're not about to pull out a _potato._ " 

Josh laughs, merry and joyful, and it runs through Sam's insides like a warm cup of coffee. "Nah. I bought some rolling papers before we left campus. Figured we could smoke a joint or two, old times' sake." At Sam's disapproving expression, Josh runs back over to the bed and pokes him in the side. "Come on, tightass. We're not on the government payroll yet." 

"What if they drug-test us?" Sam asks, arranging himself so he's sitting up against the water-stained wall. 

"We don't start till a week from Saturday, and today is Thursday, and you know as well as I do that marijuana passes through your system in _at most_ a week. And besides." Josh sits on the edge of the bed and folds his hands, attempting to look faux-serious. "I'd argue that that's unlawful search and seizure unless they can produce probable cause." 

"They would counter that by saying that this is the United States government, not Rite-Aid, and summer jobs are considerably more stringent when you are dealing with matters of national importance instead of whether the horny old man down the street gets his Viagra." 

"C'mon, Sam." Josh waves the weed enticingly in front of Sam's face. "One little joint. Some music. It's a nice night, we're kings tonight!" 

_Dammit._ Sam's close to saying _No, come on, we're not kids anymore,_ but then he looks at Josh's smile with the one side of his mouth that drives Sam so crazy, the way his eyes are dancing, and decides he needs to be high to deal with another second of this without doing something drastic. 

"All right, fine." Sam throws up his hands. "You win, let's get stoned." 

"Excellent." Josh hops off the bed and goes to the table, setting out the rolling papers and beginning to work. Sam watches the muscles in his back shift beneath his two layers of shirt and swallows dryly. 

To give himself something to do, he moves to the edge of the bed and reaches for the phone, dials his mom's number. "Hey Mom, it's Sam... No, nothing's wrong, I just wanted to tell you I got the internship-" 

"God, Sam, put your clothes on, you're on the phone with your mother for Christ's sake," Josh yells. Sam flips him off, grinning, and angles his body away. 

"No, Mom, of course I have my clothes on... It was Josh... yeah, he got the other one... I'll tell him." Sam presses the receiver to his chest and says over his shoulder to Josh, "My mother says congratulations, and that you're her favorite child." 

Josh pumps his fist and gives a silent _Yes!_ , and Sam turns back to the wall. "Well, that's all... Thanks, Mom. Yeah, you too. Tell Dad I said hi. Okay, bye." As soon as he hangs up, Josh starts laughing. "Oh, come on, man, really?" 

"Yes, really, that's a classic!" Josh turns back to his task, shoulders still shaking with amusement. 

Sam rolls his eyes, but can't keep the smile off his face. "Hey, do you want to call your dad before we smoke? I'm done on the phone." 

Josh shrugs, and when he speaks, his voice is a little tense. "Nah. It can wait." He glances over his shoulder at Sam. "Besides, I've got you here, and you're the one I would want to tell most." 

This is strange for Josh; he and his dad are close, but Sam lets that drop from his mind upon hearing that last statement. His heartbeat becomes very loud in his ears all of a sudden. 

"Aha!" Josh turns around, joint in one hand and lighter in the other. "Sam Seaborn." He tosses the lighter to Sam, who catches it, still a little dazed. "You ready?" 

Sam jerks his chin at the window. "Open that first. There's no air conditioning, and if we don't have some sort of circulation I'm more than a little worried about overheating." The heat is stagnant in the summer air, even as the sky is pinking with the first signs of sunset. 

Josh walks over and pulls at the bottom of the window. With considerable force, it bangs open and throws Josh stumbling backwards. "Shit, I think that was painted shut. Do you think they'll charge us?" 

"I think we're paying $34 per night, and I think that this motel could be renamed Health-Code Violation Hotel instead of the Shangrila. So if we do get charged, I can't imagine it would be incredibly financially taxing. And," Sam finishes, standing up and going over to Josh, "we are lawyers, and we could always just sue their pants off." 

"We haven't passed the bar yet," Josh mumbles around the joint. He extends his lower jaw and Sam flicks on the lighter, presses it to the end till the paper catches flame and starts to smolder. Josh inhales and holds, and Sam can tell he's counting inside his head to see how long he can last. It's five seconds before he's forced to let the smoke out. "It's been way too long, I'm turning into a lightweight," he coughs, and passes the joint to Sam before walking over to the stereo. He flicks through the stations, settling on one that seems to be playing hits of the 80s. 

"You are a lightweight." Sam takes a drag and doesn't try to hold it for too long, lets the smoke curl out of his mouth in a long column. The smell fills the room. It's Sam's favorite part - reminds him of sitting on a blanket with his parents at a local amphitheater and seeing all the hippy bands when he was little, surrounded by it. He used to wrinkle his nose but now he's got an almost Pavlovian response to it. 

"That's just with alcohol," comes the slightly wounded reply. Sam hands the joint back to Josh, closes his eyes to let this all sink in. The internship. The sound of the crickets filtering in through the window. The heat, coating his skin and making it feel sticky to the touch. _Josh,_ the way his throat moves in silhouette against the orange-streaked sky as he inhales. The things he said earlier about Sam being the best speechwriter he knows. How Sam can look at him and feel like he's transparent, like everyone can see his heart beating. 

When Josh tilts his head back to exhale, he tries to blow a smoke ring but fails. Sam knows that the high is hitting right about now because he feels like he could stretch time like taffy with his own hands. 

"Fuck, it's hot," Josh sighs, and keeps the joint between his lips as he unbuttons his shirt and throws it on the other bed. He walks over to the other side, facing Sam, and sits, then passes the joint back. Sam takes it robotically, because even though he's seen Josh stripped down to his boxers and painted Yale colors in the quad the middle of November, Josh in his shirtsleeves right now is for some reason one of the hottest things he's ever witnessed, and combined with the weed it's making his brain short-circuit. Josh isn't ripped, but he has some muscle mass and he's practically glowing with vitality right now, like some old photograph, all soft corners and dark shadows. He's moving and breathing and so real, and Sam knows without a doubt that he's utterly fucked, because if Josh just existing is enough to make him feel like this then it's more than what he thought it was. 

The station has moved to slower, quiet songs as they pass the joint back and forth. Sam's well and truly high now, and if Josh's eyes, with his pupils blown and wide, are any indication, so is he. The sun has dipped almost completely under the horizon, and neither of them has turned on a light, so their view of the room is washed in the dim orange of the streetlight shining in from the front of the room. 

"Sam," Josh says in a voice that's liquid tar, lower, darker, smoother than his usual speaking voice. "You okay?" 

Sam breathes the smoke out of his nose before responding. "Yeah, of course. Why?" He's lying, but the high has stolen the usual nervous tension from his body, so he's hoping that Josh can't tell. 

With a long, quiet sigh, Josh takes the joint back, inhales till the end glows so bright his face is thrown into dim relief. "You just seem weird lately. I dunno." His head makes a soft _thunk_ noise against the headboard as he tips it back to blow the smoke out. This time, he succeeds in blowing a smoke ring, and observes his triumph with a lazy grin that spreads across his face in slow-motion. Sam's stunned into silence until Josh suddenly says, casually, like it's nothing, "You in love?" 

Sam splutters and coughs in shock. He can't know. It's just not possible. " _No._ " 

"So, yeah." 

"Josh, what gave you that idea." Sam's trying so hard to not freak out, but he's floating without a tether in the middle of the ocean here, and he feels like he just got spun around and can't find his way back to shore. 

Josh shrugs, and sits the last two burning inches of the joint down in the ashtray. "Like I said, I'm not really sure. You're just... quiet, quieter that usual, and you're always looking off into the distance. Or not at me. So who is she?" 

Sam takes a moment to thank God for Josh's continued inability to be perceptive of emotions in any way. "Josh, it's not..." 

He was going to say _It's not like that,_ but Josh rushes in and says "It's not a girl?" and maybe he's not as obtuse as Sam thought. 

It would be so easy, so easy for Sam to lie and say _Yeah, of course it is,_ talk about Ainsley Hayes who neither of them would see again. But he's slow and his guard is down, and a certain doomed part of him is sick of pretending, so he breathes out shakily and says, "No, it's not." 

"Huh." Josh rubs his face with both hands like he's washing it. "Okay." 

"You're not freaked out?" 

"You're gay. So what?" Josh makes a non-committal movement with his hands and watches as the thin trail of smoke spirals up to the ceiling. 

"Well. So, I want to work in the government, and I can't exactly go around chanting _I'm here, I'm queer, get used to it,_ " Sam quips. His voice sounds dry but what he really wants to say is _So I'm in love with my best friend, and I have been for a very long time, and what would you do, Josh? What would you do if I kissed you, right now?_

"I won't tell anyone." The quiet of Josh's voice, the way he makes sure to catch Sam's eyes, tells Sam he's not lying. When Sam doesn't respond, Josh bites his lip, like he's considering something, and hesitantly asks, "Sam, have you ever... kissed a guy?" 

Despite the fact that it'll ruin the mood, Sam snort-laughs, the kind he only does around people he trusts. "Are we in seventh grade? Yes, Josh, I've _kissed a boy._ " He pauses for a second, decides if he wants to say this or not. "Not since college, not really." 

" _What?_ You haven't - oh." Josh rolls his head around, can't look at Sam all of a sudden. "It wasn't by choice." 

Sam stares at his feet - when did he take his shoes off? "You can't plan to go into government and have skeletons in the literal closet." 

They're silent for a few moments before Josh blows out a loud breath. "Shit, man, that sucks." He reaches for the joint again and hands it over to Sam, who takes it gladly. 

"Is that... how you knew? That you like guys, I mean." Josh is still examining the stubby carpet, and Sam's trying to put all this together. His stomach is floating in a way that happens all too often when he's around Josh. 

"I suppose." Sam can't blow a smoke ring, so he just breathes his lungful out slowly and watches it hang in the air, blurring Josh's outline, and sits the joint back in the ashtray. When it fades, Josh is looking at him like he's never seen him before. 

"What did it feel like, compared with kissing girls?" 

Sam pauses, then says quietly, "Fireworks." The rolling synths of the song punctuate his statement. _I can feel it coming in the air tonight..._ the radio croons, and it fills the air, electric, alive. 

There's a rustle of sheets as Josh moves forward. His shirt stretches, revealing his collarbone, and Sam's eyes are drawn to it, his neck, the way his body moves. Everything is languid and slow, so it takes Sam a few seconds to notice that Josh's hand is on his knee. 

Sam closes his eyes softly. His heart is thumping in time with the drums, like the beat of war, signifying something coming. "Josh." 

"Yeah." 

"You really don't want to do this." There's desperation in his voice, laced tight enough that it's noticeable even with the effects of the pot. He'd like to keep his eyes closed but he needs to look at Josh. Like a moth to the flame. 

Josh bites his lip again. They look swollen, bigger than they usually are, and Sam can't stand it. "Do you not want to?" 

Sam draws breath quickly, involuntarily, as Josh's hand comes and rests on his face. His thumb on Sam's lip. Sam's burning, catching fire from the inside out, every cell of him awake and alive. 

"'Cause the thing is, Sam..." Josh swallows and leans in. "I think I really do." Their noses brush, then slot together until Sam can feel their eyelashes blink against each other. "You have pretty eyes," Josh whispers, and closes the only remaining gap between their faces. 

If Sam felt fireworks when he kissed Pete Jones behind the bleachers on a dare from Jennie Schneider in ninth grade, his world explodes when he kisses Josh Lyman. It's messy, tongues and lips and teeth crashing, but it's _right_ in a way that seems to reach Sam's soul. He wasn't aware until now that he'd sweated through his shirt, until Josh's hands were pressing the damp white fabric against the small of his back. Their chins press together and Sam swears into Josh's mouth, scraped by the other man's stubble. "Sorry, sorry," Josh breathes, and when did he end up perched over Sam, holding him so tight he feels like he might break apart? 

"Don't be," Sam gasps, and he's scrambling to lift himself off the bed and meet Josh's mouth again. He's waited for so long that he physically can't make himself wait anymore, and his hands are shaking where they're gripping Josh's t-shirt. This dream - because that's what it has to be - Sam can't let slip away. And maybe this is just Josh's bi-curious moment, maybe they'll never speak after this, maybe they'll get married, who knows, but in the haze of smoke and the lack of light Sam can pretend that this is everything he's wanted. 

Josh grabs the blunt and takes a long drag, then comes at Sam, all dark wide eyes and the freckles he only gets in the summertime, so fine that you can't even see them unless you're really looking. Sam opens his mouth, tries not to cough, and they shotgun the smoke until it's curling out of his nose. He can barely catch his breath before Josh kisses him again, chasing the taste of the weed on his tongue. 

They break apart only a few seconds later, but it truly feels like breaking. Josh touches his lips like he expects them to feel different. "Fireworks." 

He comes back for more, again and again, kissing down Sam's neck, across his chest, and Sam opens up and gives everything he has, because it all belongs to Josh anyway. Has since the first day he laid eyes on him, with his stupid smirk and his terrible sense of humor and his brilliant, brilliant mind. They lose themselves in the buzz and the heat, and for a moment Sam forgets that this isn't real. 

After, Sam can't say a word, can't bring himself to do anything except stare at Josh, because he knows if he speaks then his mouth will betray him. And Josh looks over and his face changes, and something inside Sam breaks. "It's me, isn't it," he says, quiet and solemn, and Sam just nods once. His hands are still shaking. He looks away. 

Josh reaches over and grabs Sam's chin, turns it harshly towards him. "Hey. No. Don't space out on me, California." 

The tears are pricking at the corner of Sam's eyes. He hardly ever cries. "You can leave if you want, I understand." 

"Do you see me going anywhere?" Josh demands, and it's true. He's firmly planted next to Sam on the bed. "Besides, they don't have any vacancies." God bless and deliver him for attempting a joke. 

"So." Sam's managed to banish the tears, but his voice is still thick. "So are we going to talk about this?" 

"What is there to talk about," Josh starts, and when he sees the look on Sam's face he recoils. "No, not like that, I mean... we were high, we're _still_ high, Sam -" 

"But I loved you before I smoked," Sam snaps, raw, angry. 

Josh's mouth stays open like he's going to say something, but after a few seconds, he just hangs his head. The moon is shining in now, cool light creating contrast with the orange glare of the light in the parking lot. The clock over his shoulder reads 11:04 in blinking red letters. One of them turned the stereo off in between kisses, because it was ruining the mood, but now Sam doesn't care, just wishes for something other than crickets to fill the silence. 

"Here's what I know, right now, okay? Because I may be a Fulbright scholar but, as you have so kindly noted in the past, I have my head up my ass when it comes to romance." Josh's voice is even and measured, and it calms Sam down just a fraction. "I'm not gay. At least, I don't think I am, although I guess you never know. Anyway," he waves a hand, dismissing that problem for another day, "when I kissed you - I felt the fireworks." 

"Yeah, because we're both still high," Sam mutters derisively. 

" _Dammit,_ Sam, I didn't mean it like that, will you shut up for one ever-loving minute?" That comes out louder than he intended, and he drops his head again and gives a sigh. "Sorry. God. I just - I have literally zero idea of where to go from here. But I..." Josh licks his lips, seems to hesitate before taking the plunge. "Sam, I felt something. Not just stereotypical fireworks. I mean it, I did. And I know as sure as I know anything that I would have felt it if we were making out stone-cold sober standing on the corner of 7th and fucking Pennsylvania. It's not the pot, it's _you,_ and maybe I just needed a little convincing." He casts his eyes to the side. "But never mind all that crap, what's important is that you're here, right now. And I don't want to leave. Tomorrow is tomorrow, we can deal with shit then, or we can deal with it never, but I'm not leaving, Sam. Not tonight." 

The weight of what he's said is heavier than the humid air, but Josh ignores what must be his overwhelming instinct to talk more. Sam closes his eyes and watches the lights dance behind them, and feels his resolve weakening. "Okay," he says after what seems like an eternity. 

So Josh wraps his arms around Sam's middle and pulls him closer, kisses the back of his neck, the scar on his shoulder from where he fell off his bike at age eight, murmurs words Sam can't hear into the warm expanse of skin beneath his lips. It's not much. It hurts like he can't breathe, like walking through fire, but this one night of bittersweet perfection - for now, it's enough for him. Not what he wanted, and he's not even sure how he'll go on in the morning. But he tells himself that right here, right now, it's enough. It has to be.

**Author's Note:**

> well there it is! i really hope you enjoyed. i started this intending it to be a sweet one-shot and it turned angsty (which is like the opposite of what usually happens lol), and i'm already planning a sequel. so uh yeah the muses have been speaking to me this week.
> 
>  
> 
> thanks for reading! ❤ come yell at me on tumblr ([@shouttogether](https://weareparamore.co.vu)) if you want to talk about this, josh/sam, or tww in general!


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